


War Wounds

by phoenixhowl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Handicap, M/M, Mentions of blood and wounds, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 15:29:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixhowl/pseuds/phoenixhowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit on my headcanons for Colonel James Moriarty</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Wounds

There were days his leg hurt so badly that it brought his entire mood down; a constant sting nagged him, shooting needles up through his thigh, as if the shards of the mine were still there, piercing skin and flesh. Sometimes James even dreamt about it, and he would still be able to feel warm blood soaking his trousers seconds after he awoke with a gasp, his shirt sticking against his sweaty chest.

His heart thumped against his ribs as he tugged the duvet away from his lower body, half expecting to see his sheets drenched. Instead, of course, there was no blood, nothing to see. Just his leg and his stump, also covered in a slight sheen of sweat. Sitting up with a slight groan, he turned his head to check the time. His alarm clock flashed a rude, unforgiving oh-five-eightteen; too early to get up, too late to get back to sleep. Another frustrated huff fell off his lips when he pushed himself to the edge of the bed, his hands going through the familiar motions as he strapped the prosthesis into place.

It shifted underneath his weight as he stood up, as if it was too large for him already. He had been told that was normal; the muscles of his thigh would atrophy, his mass shrinking due to lack of use. However, he had tried hard to keep himself in good shape, as if he tried to delay the inevitable. Jamie would be thrilled; his younger brother had been more than helpful during the entire healing process, tittering away as he told his grumpy older brother all kinds of nifty tricks. And although reluctantly, James had accepted his help, finding some solace in his company. After a while his enthusiasm started to irk him; it was almost as if Jamie found him an interesting test subject, rather than a brother he was happy to help out. So he had withdrawn himself, stopped returning Jamie's calls more often than not, until their contact almost died out. He saw him two, three times a year maybe, now Jamie was busy with his studies and he tried to busy himself with work.

The tell-tale clank of metal against the wooden floor was a sound he still wasn't quite used to. Normally his shoes or socks muffled the noise, but when walked barefoot through his apartment, like he did now, the hollow noise seemed just as out of place as his prosthesis felt at times as it echoed through his kitchen. The coffee maker pruttled as his thoughts flitted to his two older brothers; Richard was a doll, as always. He had been caring and nurturing, motherly even as he helped cleaning the apartment, made him tea, and fluffed up his pillows, all the while humming some calming tune. That too got on his nerves eventually, because he wasn't elderly, nor handicapped. There was no reason to speak to him as if he was on his death bed, and while he knew Richard meant no harm, James had closed himself off from him too. He had been offered a position in MoD, a desk job where they could use a strategical mind like his, and while Richard had tutted that he should take it easy, James had snapped at him and unloaded all his frustrations in one go. He could recall the look of pity and hurt in Richard's eyes as if it had been yesterday. There had been a moment of silence where they just stared at each other, and then Richard had taken his coat as gracefully as always, telling him that he surely knew best what to do with himself. After that the contact had been polite, but superficial, with Richard evading every touchy subject as if he was scared to upset James again. He hated that even more.

And then there was Jim, mad, ingenious Jim. He didn't even have to look at his oldest brother to know that he detested the entire situation. Jim had never approved of his wish to join the army, never understood why he would lower himself to the level of a mere footsoldier with his capabilities. And then he had the nerve to return with a honourable discharge and a piece of his leg missing, serving as a reminder that even the one's Jim Moriarty loved – James used that word lightly, because there were times he wasn't sure it worked like that with Jim – were mortal.

The bitter taste of the coffee didn't do much to improve his mood, his sulking hanging over him like a dark cloud. On weekdays, he could manage. His job was demanding, and he had a way of making himself more important than someone in his position actually should be. Not that he minded, he liked the challenge, and the power, of course. Another advantage was that he had always something to do, even in the weekends. There was a nice stack of paperwork waiting for him to use and work his worries away for the rest of the weekend, until the daily grind of the workweek offered him other ways to keep himself busy.

After having himself clothed, he settled behind his desk with another cup of coffee, cracking his fingers before opening his first file. Starting this early would mean he would be done earlier as well, but he didn't fancy hanging around the house and sulking some more. It was better to distract himself now before he could lower his own spirits some more. However, he was hardly halfway the first paragraph when the ring of his doorbell disturbed him, his heavy eyebrows furrowing. It was no time to expect visits, and he certainly had not scheduled one. The clock showed it was hardly past six, and yet his bell rung once more, this time more insistently.

James spewed out a curse in his native tongue as he marched to the door, only to have his features overwritten in genuine surprise when he opened it. Two identical blonds grinned up to him, seemingly all prepared to go out to the country or something similar. They used his bewilderment to let themselves in, heavy boots stamping as they moved into the house, leaving him with nothing else to do but to close the door.

“Ah, coffee!” Severin exclaimed, and before he could even politely offer for Severin to help himself, the man was already slurping contently. James stared for a moment, for once not sure what to expect of the situation. “I'm sorry, did we have an appointment?”

“Nah, mate,” Sebastian grinned, happily pouring himself some coffee as well. “We're just going out hunting, and we thought you could use some fresh air as well. You know, get outside for a bit, shoot some pheasants, see if you still have it in you. You must have been good at something, reaching a rank like that at your age.”

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel flattered or teased at that, so instead he just offered the two of them a half-hearted smile as he gestured at the pile of work that was waiting for him. “The offer is very tempting, I must admit. But I have work-”

Severin snorted, cutting him off with a teasing smirk on his face. “Oh, you Moriarties and your work. Like anyone has the balls to complain if you haven't read one file yet. Just tell 'em to suck your dick and come with us. Maybe I'll do it for you then.”

His hand fell idly at his side at that, and James blinked a few times. “I don't think I have a suitable hunting rifle for fowl.”

“We took one extra,” Sebastian retorted.

“You have the permits for that?”

Severin rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Hunting license?”

“Ye-hes.”

James plucked at his shirt, his brow furrowing some more. “I'll have to change.”

“Then get your sexy arse in gear and go change. You'll have ten minutes, we'll wait here and drink your coffee.” Both Sebastian and Severin were just looking at him with a cocky smirk, and finally James gave in. If they wanted to see what he was made of, then fine, he would show the arrogant bastards. Straightening up, he marched into his bedroom, shoving all his suits inside to get to the clothing he needed. He would still look neater than the Morans, but that would suit him just fine. It took him precisely eight minutes to return to the living room, so that he still had time to drink the coffee that was waiting for him on his desk. With that downed, he smacked his lips, sending the blonds a challenging smirk every Moriarty had down to perfection and showed them to the door. “Rookies first, gentlemen.”

It earned him a guffaw and a snort, and Sebastian clapped him on the shoulder as he steered him to the car. It was nothing like him to abandon his responsibilities like that, but the offer had been truly tempting; the idea alone had chased away his temper, and hearing Sebastian's and Severin's teasing had a remarkably good influence on him already. Sentiment was an odd emotion, and not one he liked to admit he fell easily prey to at times.

“Oy, James.” Severin's voice ripped him out of his thoughts, and he looked over his shoulder to the back seat, where Sebastian had banished his brother to. “Don't you need your cane, just in case?”

The question made him doubt for just a second, but then the mischievous grin was back on his face in full glory. “I'll just use you when I feel need of it, methinks. That will do just fine.”

The starting engine of the car drowned the sound of Sebastian's laughter and Severin's protests, and James settled himself comfortably in his chair, his grin widening. Oh, he would show the English bastards where he was good at exactly, and they would more than enjoy it. He was sure of that.


End file.
